The Need of Endurance
by Rahmi
Summary: Scenes from the apocalypse between an angel and... well, Sam's not sure what he is. Written pre-season 5 premier.


_This was the "Apocalypse" square for my cliche bingo. It was written pre-season 5, so the relationship between Sam and Castiel is decidedly non-canon compliant, as is Sam's detox scenario. Mentions of contemplated suicide, detoxing from drugs, and various musings about religion and angels._

* * *

**1. Patience**

Sam's sitting on a stone bench in Vermont watching leaves fall. It's around midnight, he thinks, but the sun's high and huge; the tree he's sitting under is speckled with blood from the hail two hours ago.

He's sweating and probably dehydrated, but there's a corpse up in the branches he can't stop staring at. This is the world he helped create. His mouth twists hard. "Long live the boy-king," he murmurs to himself.

A bird startles in response. It sounds like a bird, at least, but he knows it's not. Sam tilts his head. Considering the sky is a vivid, bruised purple-black and the animals have all either died out or gone to ground, there's really only one thing it can be.

One of two beings, actually, and the first guess didn't count because Anna couldn't stand the sight of him. "Did Dean send you?" he asks.

"No," Castiel says. He sits down next to Sam; their knees brush together. It's the most human contact Sam's had in about three months. "Dean is... indisposed, at the moment. He does not have the luxury of worry."

"Lucky him," Sam says. His hands are starting to shake.

Castiel's hand touches the back of his and the shaking stops. "He misses you," he says. "But I understand if you aren't ready to come back. He understands."

"Bullshit," Sam says. "Dean thinks waiting for--" he stops himself because he can't think of something to finish that sentence. He doesn't _know_his brother. He's never really known him. Sam shivers a little under the hot sun and turns away from Castiel's gaze. "It's better for both of us if I stay away."

Sam stands up and rakes a hand through his hair. "I need to go."

Castiel gives him a solemn look and nods. "There is a demon infestation three hours from here, as the crow flies," he says. "It should take you half a day, if you hurry."

The saliva that floods his mouth makes him want to hurl. It's been two days since he last licked demon blood off his knife and the shakes are getting worse and worse. "Why don't you take care of them, then?" he asks.

"You're not ready to come back," Castiel says.

* * *

**2. Kindness**

"You're not doing yourself any favors, Sam."

Sam would pick his head up from the cement if he had the energy. "Nobody asked you," he slurs. He bats at Castiel's hands when he tries to pick him up; the cement, at least, is cold. The rest of the world is too hot. "Anybody still alive?"

Castiel hesitates before he says, "Yes," decisively.

"Still not very good at lying," Sam observes.

"Dean says I will get better, with practice."

Yeah, Dean would. Sam tilts his head so he can press his temple to a new spot. "You were doing pretty well a year ago," he says.

Castiel sits on the ground beside him and leans back on his hands; Sam watches him out of one eye and thinks that he's been hanging around humans too long. He used to just stand around with his hands hanging like a puppet. "Omission is not lying," Castiel says. "Some truths are not meant for humanity."

"Like what happens when we die, whether there's a heaven, and how to save ourselves?"

"Yes," Castiel says. He rests a hand between Sam's shoulder blades and offers a stiff smile when Sam grimaces. "Though I can tell you that Heaven is beautiful, should it exist."

* * *

**3. Goodness**

Sam's planting apple seeds in Minnesota when something suddenly blocks out the sun. There are two huge shadows on either side of him when he glances up, and he sighs. "Seriously," says Sam, "Did Dean tell you to babysit me or something?"

Castiel shakes his head jerkily. "No," he says. "Dean is loath to track you down at the moment. I am doing this of my own violation."

"_Why?_" Sam demands.

Castiel says, "Dean said, 'Fuck if I'm gonna play hide and seek while the _apocalypse happens._'" Castiel is disturbingly good at mimicking Dean. Sam is surprised to find himself wanting to smile. "He said that if you were going to be a pussy, he couldn't be assed to find you."

"Thanks," Sam says, "But that's not what I meant. I want to know why you're following me." A headache is starting to throb just behind his right eye. He wonders how far away the nearest town (nearest demon) is.

"I want to. You're not alone, Sam. I don't want you to think you are."

Sam snorts but doesn't say anything.

He dusts his hands off on the back of his jeans and tries to will the seed to sprout. It's dry and dusty under the Minnesota sun; the water's drying up under twenty-four hours of nonstop sunlight and the plants have all pretty much had it. He doesn't think demonic powers run to making plants grow, but he's willing to try.

Castiel crouches next to him and spreads a palm over the disturbed dirt. Sam tries not to feel like a dirty, useless human-demon hybrid when the seed immediately sprouts to nudge grateful green leaves against Castiel's hand.

"Should you really be using your power for something like this?" Sam asks. "You're an angel. There has to be something more important for you to be doing."

"'The earth brought forth vegetation, plants yielding seed according to their own kinds, and trees bearing fruit in which is their seed, each according to its kind,'" Castiel says. "'And God saw that it was good.' All is His creation, Sam. It's all important."

The seedling puts out a tentative branch under Sam's fingertip.

* * *

**4. Gentleness**

He's not sure what color the sky is right now. The sun's white on a grey expanse of sky, the trees bleached to murky pale against it. Nothing stands out because nothing's _alive._ Demons don't see in color (not unless it's prey or predator, human or angel) and his eyes are black most days now, even when he's not guzzling blood.

The meatpuppet corpses at his feet are cooling from infected black to dead grey. The people had been dead with demons riding shotgun. It doesn't stop the small, horrified part of his brain that gibbered when he bled one's jugular directly into his mouth.

There's nothing in color all the way to the horizon. Sam squeezes his eyes shut and opens them again, trying to wash the colors back in. It doesn't work. He stares at the bodies next to him instead of thinking about that too hard.

Something brilliantly, painfully blue eases up beside him. "One of your guys came after me yesterday," Sam says.

Castiel is quiet for a few seconds. "I am aware," he says. "Dean has taken care of another."

Sam rakes a hand through his hair and shrugs. "Are there going to be more?" he asks.

"Doubtful," Castiel says. "There are more pressing issues than Samuel Winchester at the moment."

"I just started the apocalypse," says Sam. He knows he sounds like a petulant child and doesn't really care. The world's gone to hell and he's responsible for it. "I'm not the one keeping it going."

"I know."

"You might want to tell your friends." The angel's dead. He hadn't really meant to kill it, he barely even _remembers_ killing it, but that doesn't change the fact that it's not a threat anymore. He's pretty sure they have better things to do than die at his feet.

He's the motherfucking bringer of the apocalypse. Lucifer and Azazel (and God, or whatever passes for Him) hadn't meant for him to be easy to kill.

Castiel touches a finger to the side of his head and tilts it around so Sam's facing him. Sam blinks in an automatic flinch; he knows his eyes are demon-black right now. He doesn't particularly want Castiel to see.

"They've been informed," Castiel says. "I have warned them not to do it again."

The angel is gone when he opens his eyes, but the world's suddenly bright with smears of blue, yellow, and brown, red blood on the dirt where he'd been too frantic to bother eating cleanly.

He'd once told the ghost of a traumatized child that he wasn't a monster. Sam squints up into the purple-black sky and thinks that it's about time he makes that true again.

* * *

**5. Faithfulness**

There's a hand on his forehead the first time he climbs his way out. He can actually _feel it_, but the last time he went through this he could feel his younger self breathing on his face, so he squints hard at the ceiling. "Here?" he rasps.

"You were crying," Castiel says. "Forgive me if you did not want the intrusion." The hand is cold on his skin.

Sam really, really wishes there was some truth to that whole angel healing thing people spouted. "Detox," he grits out, "My choice."

"Yes." The cot dips under Castiel's weight; Sam's still not sure if he's _here_, but it's nice to not be screaming alone. "I do not understand the cuffs, Sam."

He rolls his head away from the angel and tries to draw in a breath. Everything feels heavy and dull; his head is pounding, his body is pounding, and Castiel _almost_ smells like a demon. Almost, almost, fuck fuck fuck. "Hurt somebody," he manages to garble out.

Middle of fucking nowhere, abandoned warehouse, apocalypse in the sky, but he doesn't want to hurt anyone again, can't make Cindy McLellan stop _screaming at him_. She's watching him from over Castiel's shoulder now, her neck wide and gaping where he'd sunk his teeth in.

"You've already _hurt somebody_," she says. "Jesus, Sam, it's a little late for the noble routine, don't you think? Did my Mom ever find my body?"

There's a hand on his cheek. It's cool. "She's not there, Sam," Castiel says. "Her soul was escorted on months ago."

Cindy crosses her arms over her chest and leans in to stare him straight in the eye. "Yeah, listen to the angel you're hallucinating instead of the woman you killed." She snorts. "You remember how it was, don't you? I screamed, you cut, I bled, you drank? Good times. My kids get to grow up without a mommy because you thought you could save the world."

"Thought I had to," Sam tells her. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

"Everyone's always sorry, Sam," Cindy says. She sits down opposite Castiel and rakes her fingers thoughtfully down his chest. It feels like _knives_; he arches off the bed with a scream. "Everyone's always sorry, but it's always the innocent people who suffer. You're no better than your baby-eating monster."

"Samuel," Castiel says, "Enough." The hand on his forehead moves to close around his eyes. "Cindy McLellan is not here."

Sam rips his head away with a watery laugh. "Neither are you," he says.

A sound like rustling wings and the black behind his eyelids is suddenly _cool_instead of burning. "I am," Castiel says. "Go back to sleep."

* * *

**6. Self-Control**

There's still a hand on his forehead. Sam squints his eyes open and meets a blue gaze. Angel. Stupid fucking angel, sitting there like. Like.

Sam loses his train of thought. They melt into Mom's a second later anyway, so it doesn't matter.

"Good morning, Sam," Mom says softly. Her fingers are around his throat, squeezing contemplatively. "Do you wonder how much better the world would have been if I had miscarried?"

Sam gurgles up at her and laughs. Her eyes are Castiel's eyes and it hurts to look at them both, he doesn't know what's real and what isn't except that they both _aren't._ "I want Dean," he says breathlessly.

"You stay away from Dean," Mom says.

"Dean will be here, if you want him," Castiel says.

Sam latches on to Castiel. "Don't," he says. "Already saw me... once enough." Make it stop, make it stop, make it stop, make her stop smiling with Castiel's eyes and make her let go, he can't breathe.

His eyes slide helplessly to the lock pick just out of reach. His hands are too shaky to use it, but he wants to. Oh, he wants to. Lock pick then knife under the bed, knife he was going to use to kill himself if he _failed this_, but that could come after he. After he.

Blood, blood, blood, angels might have just enough demon in them to make this _stop._

The lock pick twitches towards him. The hand on his forehead is still cool.

Castiel's other hand touches down on his cheek, featherlight, and turns his face away. "It's not the same," he says gently. "If you were to drink this vessel's blood, it would cleanse the demonic in fire and light. Your body would not survive."

"Good," Sam tries to say, but Mom's squeezing again and instead he just closes his eyes.

* * *

**7. Joy**

Sam rolls a locust between his fingers. It screeches at him and tries to bite his fingers with ludicrously big fangs, its ass thumping wildly against his palm. "You tried to bite me," Sam tells it. "You're lucky I didn't just crush your skull."

Granted, he's going to burn it in a few minutes, but it doesn't know that.

He's grown up with supernatural creatures, but he'd still flinched a little the first time he got a good look at the newest fuck-you from Above. It's got a baby face. Literally. It looks like an infant with giant teeth and long hair pasted on a grasshopper body. And it stings like a motherfucker.

"The locusts don't bother the demons," says Castiel.

Sam swears and almost drops the bug. "Don't do that," he tells Castiel.

Castiel blinks placidly at him. "I've been 'doing that' for six months, Sam," he points out. "Longer, to your brother."

"Yeah, and I bet Dean finds it creepy too."

"He's mentioned it a few times." Castiel wanders a little closer and goes onto his toes to stare Sam in the eye; Sam stares back, pretty nonplussed. "The locusts don't bother the demons," Castiel says again, sounding pleased with himself.

"Are you saying I'm not a demon anymore?" asks Sam. He's got news for Castiel if that's what he thinks. He can still feel something wriggling through his veins; it's hot and hungry and _pissed the fuck off_ at being confined in a human body.

He's going to be a recovering addict for the rest of his life.

"You were never a demon, Sam," Castiel says.

"I had black eyes."

"You were never entirely human either."

"Yeah, I got that a few years ago, thanks."

Castiel tucks his hands behind his back and stares up at the sky. "The demons have left their mark," he says, "But you're still a creature of the Lord. You have choices."

Choices. Great. Why did all of his choices always seem like a cosmic joke? Leave hunting, get dragged back in with a dead girlfriend to show for it. Show mercy, get a knife to the spine. Stick to your morals and watch your brother get torn apart and dragged to hell. Try to do the right thing and end up bringing the world to its knees.

It would probably be better for everyone involved if he didn't get to choose his own path.

Sam pinches the locust's butt and concentrates. It's harder without the boost of extra demon blood, but he can still feel that _spark_ inside. Dumbo's lost his feather, he thinks meanly, and sets the locust on fire.

It screams like an enraged demon while it burns.

Choices, Sam thinks, staring down at it. He chose to detox off demon blood. Now he's got to choose where the fuck to go from here.

"Okay," he says, "Okay. Tell me where Dean is."

It's not like the world can get any more fucked up anyway.

* * *

**8. Love**

He's pretty sure Castiel is beaming behind him when he makes it to the hunter's camp.

"Sammy," Dean says.

"Hi, Dean."

Dean's face doesn't change. The half ring of hunters at his back are fingering their weapons, but Sam. Sam's clean for the first time in over two years and he's ready. He doesn't give a flying fuck what anyone but Dean thinks of him.

"'Hi, Dean'?" Dean parrots back. "Dude, is that all you can fucking say to me?" He prowls closer; Sam holds his ground, but just barely. Dean's _pissed_ and he has a right to be.

"I'm sorry," he says softly.

"Sorry ain't gonna cut it, Sam," Dean says, and Sam nods, says, "I know."

He knows. His brother loves him, but that doesn't mean he trusts him and Sam doesn't really trust Dean either, but he's ready to work on that now. He hopes Dean is too.

"Just so we're clear," Dean says. He comes closer still. Sam's expecting a punch to the face, to be honest, but his brother just _hugs him_. It's probably the most contact Sam's had since he was regularly fucking a demon.

He finds himself having to blink back tears. He really, really hopes Dean doesn't ask why there's a wet spot on his jacket, because he's not really sure he's successful.

Dean thumps him twice on the back before letting go. Sam tries to smile.

"Son of a bitch," Dean says, "Did you get taller?"

* * *

_This was more... experimental than anything. I wanted to use the "fruit of the Spirit" Bible quote (But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. - Galations 5:22-23), but I ended up writing them out of order, so I don't think it worked._


End file.
